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Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly lo'e the west,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lass I lo'e best;There wild-woods grow and rivers row,And mony a hill between,But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonnie bird that singsBut minds me o' my Jean.

What sighs and vows amang the knowesHae passed atween us twa!How fond to meet, how wae to part,That night she gaed awa!The powers aboon can only kenTo whom the heart is seen,That nane can be sae dear to me
As my sweet lovely Jean !

And this is the season when up and down the land and away in foreign climes the name of Burns will be drowned in words and whiskey. There will be listeners, many of them, who do not know their Burns, but will enjoy the haggis, the songs, the orations and the glances at their neighbours’ make-up and dresses. Somewhere in this issue, the words “a romance in four lines” have been used, and my memory is taken to a day long ago when I had lunch with Harry Lauder – at his expense! – in the old Cavour Restaurant, Leicester Square, London. After we had finished our food, we were joined by George Robey, the English comedian, and a friend of his from “His Master’s Voice” Company. I don’t remember the conversation, which led up top Lauder’s outburst, but I do temember his words, “Ach, you Englishmen, you tak’ fower hundred pages to write a romance; I’ll gie ye a romance in four lines;

“Had we never loved sae blindly,
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.